


The Snow Princess

by bikadoo_2



Series: Of Dragons and Wolves [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And Jon Snow has fathered her daughter, F/M, Lyarra Stark - Freeform, Not compliant with season 8, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, The Red Queen Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikadoo_2/pseuds/bikadoo_2
Summary: The heir to the North is raised without a father. It takes nineteen years for her to understand why.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Of Dragons and Wolves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796548
Comments: 34
Kudos: 326





	The Snow Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Surprised? So am I.

Her mother says she was born of a wolf.

Lyarra is five and ever curious when she asks the question. Her mother is a Queen and ever cautious when she tells the lie.

“He came in the winter's night and delivered me you, my spring princess.” They speak in hushed whispers beneath the furs of her mother's bed. “And I knew then that winter was over.” 

“But how did you know I was  _ your  _ babe?” Lyarra asks, huddled to her mother’s side, protected from the cold. “I could have belonged to anyone.”

“No,” Her mother murmurs, her smile small. Lyarra thinks it too sad to be a true smile, but she knows nothing different. “I knew you were mine from the start.”

* * *

When she has nightmares, her mother rocks her to sleep.

“It’s alright,” she says, in that soft voice of hers. “I’m here.”

Her mother’s arms are warm, but her fear is still real and not even her mother could wish it away. Beneath her eyelids, fresh and true, is the nightmare she had been trying to escape from. Monsters with cold hands and blue eyes and dragons that filled the sky. Stories heard from whispers turned to fear so easily.

If her mother is cross at Lyarra for waking her, she does not show it. No sharp word leaves her mouth, nor does her face screw up in that way it does when fury comes knocking. Instead, her mother – the Queen she is – presses Lyarra to her chest and whispers what little she can that will offer comfort.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Lyarra whimpers, clutching to her mother’s chest.

It takes her mother all but a second to tell her she will never be alone, rattling off name after name after name, as if it was her own prayer said nightly.  _ Mama. Arya. Brienne. Podrick. Jaime. Jon. _ __

Lyarra knows them all… all except one.

* * *

Lyarra doesn’t like the Queen.

She hates the crown and the gowns and the throne the Queen must sit on. She hates the court and the Lords and all that come before her. But most of all she hates that her Mama disappears when the Queen comes. Her grins are resigned to polite smiles, her hands are kept firmly in her lap and her light fades with each minute sat on the weirwood throne.

“Must you do it?” Lyarra asks one day, when they’re alone. Her Mama’s hand stills from where it brushes her hair, coming to rest on her shoulder.

“Do what?”

_ Be her. _

When she tells her, laughter fills the room. “Of course I do. I am the Queen.”

“You’re  _ my  _ Mama.”

“That too.” Her mother smiles. “That first.”

Lyarra scowls, pushing away from her mother. Her Mama laughs again, her face twisting in a way that the Queen would never allow.

“Lya, you will be Queen one day as well!” Her mother calls as Lya flees the room. “It’s in your blood.”

“I don’t want to be Queen,” Lyarra mutters, angry at her mother for laughing. “I never want to be Queen.”

* * *

When the Karstarks come to visit, Lyarra hides away in the Godswood.

“It’s bad manners,” Ser Jaime says when he finds her, high up in the branches of the heart tree. “You’re a Princess, after all.”

She sneers at the word. “I don’t want to see them.”

In truth, Lyarra would rather be run through with a sword than have to sit through a dinner with Ned Karstark at her side. The boy seemed to have the sole intention of driving her mad every time he stepped foot in Winterfell. Lyarra has sat through too many torturous dinners, too many excruciating conversations, to dare leave the tree.

She once read that a Godswood could be used as a place for sanctuary. An old Targaryen Queen had done so, hiding from an invader while her husband fought them back. Maester Marwin told her that out of all the places in the world, a Godswood is sacred. 

And so, Lyarra is determined to stay put.

“Ned Karstark isn’t so bad,” Ser Jaime says. Ghost is at his side; the old wolf looking up at her with great big eyes. “He likes you far too much, but he’s not unkind.”

“He smells like cabbage and asks too many questions,” Lyarra replies, sullen. “And if you take me back there, the Gods will strike you down and you’ll have to live the rest of your life a cripple.”

Ser Jaime throws his head back and laughs. “What do you think this is?” He raises the golden hand. “I’m as much a cripple as I’ll ever be. Now come on – your mother is waiting for you.”

“The Queen, you mean.” Lyarra shakes her head. “I’m not going back, Ser Jaime. And unless you mean to take me from this tree, then you’d best leave me alone.”

Ser Jaime cocks a brow. “Your mother will be angry.”

“The  _ Queen _ will be angry,” Lyarra snaps, “and I care little if she’s cross. Mama won’t care.”

“You’re wrong there, little wolf,” Ser Jaime says. “Your Mama cares a great deal.”

“Then she can sit with Ser Cabbage and deal with his foul breath!” Lyarra snaps back, so angry she could scream.

Ser Jaime laughs, shaking his head as he turns to leave. “For a girl that doesn’t wish to be Queen, you sure know how to order people around.”

Later, when she’s sure the castle is asleep and she can return to her chambers, Lyarra finds her mother waiting for her. For a moment, Lyarra expects admonishment – as Ser Jaime had predicted. But there is no anger in her Mama’s face and when she beckons her closer, Lyarra can see her warmth.

“You’re not angry?” Lyarra asks, suddenly feeling two-years-old.

Her mother runs a hand over her hair, biting at her lip. “Anger is not useful for a Queen. You’ll come to learn that, little wolf.” 

* * *

She walks the halls of Winterfell with the face of a ghost.

Those who remember call her  _ Lyanna  _ behind her back. They are the ones who survived both wars – their faces stitched together by wrinkles and battle scars. Lyarra hasn’t heard that name since before Old Nan died and now, it seems she can’t escape it.

When she asks her mother about it, the Queen offers a shrug. “You have your grandfather's look, Lyarra.”

But Lyarra doesn’t know her grandfather – his bones are buried deep within the crypts and his statute gathers dust by the day. All she can see are sharp angles and a great sword that no longer exists.

“Do I look like him?” Lya asks her Aunt one day, when she is visiting from the South. Aunt Arya spends half the year in Winterfell away from her husbands keep in favour of staying at the northern fortress. Lyarra is the only one not to question it.

Her Aunt eyes her with a bewildered look. “Who?”

“Your father.”

Arya breathes out a large sigh – and then bellows out a laugh. “What’s the fascination with my father?”

“Mama says I have his look.”

Arya snorts. “I’m sure she does.”

“And do I?”

“I suppose.”

That’s all her Aunt has to say, before she begins babbling about the madness of some battle. Lyarra once loved hearing all the gory details about her Aunts exploits, but now, all she can think about is the statue in the crypt and whether or not she has his face.

In the end, it is Ser Jaime who provides her with the answers she wants.

When she asks him the question while out in the wolfswood, he does not hesitate like her Aunt had. “You take after your great Aunt, Princess. Her name was Lyanna.”

She tightens her hold on the reigns. “That’s what the servants say.”

“Well, if they say so it must be true.” Ser Jaime laughs. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I don’t look like Mama,” Lyarra says with a shrug. “And I certainly don’t look like a wolf.”

* * *

The King in the South comes to visit on her eighth name day.

Lyarra twitches in her gown, shuffling from foot to foot as she glances over her shoulder. Ser Cabbage is watching her from beside his mother, his bright brown eyes holding too much excitement. Lyarra wants to run as far as she can until her legs stop working. She wants to hide in the wolfswood, where the snow is melting into puddles and the winter roses are in bloom. No King or dragon could keep her here – not when Ned Karstark is behind her.

Her mother places a hand on her shoulder – a quiet reminder to settle – as the gates swing open. The King's court pours into the heart of Winterfell, painting the ancient walls in red and black.

The people of Winterfell fall to their knees. Her mother does not. Lyarra watches from the dirt as the King and Queen meet eyes, kin reunited and yet strangers alike. The young Princess expects an embrace – shouts of joy – but there is nothing to be found between the two monarchs. Instead, a quiet greeting is shared, their words as distant as their keeps.

“He looks like you, Lya,” Ned whispers in her ear, giddy.

His words are met with a glare, but she doesn’t have time to hit him as she usually would, for the King of the South stands before her.

“Princess Lyarra.”

His smile is broad. Her curtsy is clumsy.

“Just like Arya then,” The King says with a laugh, the lines at his eyes crinkling slightly. But Lyarra can’t focus on the joy on his face – her attention drawn instead to the scars that line his skin. It reminds her of the cracks in the Broken Tower.

Her mother gives the King a curt smile. “Come, we must break bread.”

The King barely speaks to Lyarra during his visit, but in the busy moments – when the court has gathered and the noise is deafening – the lone Princess of the North finds the Targaryen staring at her with Stark eyes.  _ Her  _ eyes. Lyarra averts her gaze as soon as she recognises the look. It’s the same mask Ser Jaime wears sometimes, when he thinks himself alone to his sadness. 

Lyarra doesn’t understand it, but the golden knight does. 

“Agony is found in the quiet moments, little wolf,” Ser Jaime explains later. “Mayhaps you remind the King of something painful.”

_ Something painful. _

On the day he departs, the King finds her in the Godswood – closer to the heavens than earth.

“You seem quite comfortable up there.”

Lyarra startles, letting out a yelp as her balance is thrown off. She clings to the white branches of the weirwood, staring down at the stranger King. “Your grace!”

The King covers a flinch with a smile. “Do you climb often?”

She answers with a nod.

“Your Uncle Bran loved to climb,” He comments, his hand grazing the white wood.

“And then he fell off the broken tower and became broken himself,” Lyarra says. “I know the story, your grace.”

“Your mother told you?”

Lyarra shakes her head. “Ser Jaime, your grace.”

A queer look comes over the King – anger, agony and outrage alike. For a moment, Lyarra expects the King to scream; his face holding so much fury that it resembles her Aunt Arya. Lyarra can almost feel the heat of his rage licking the air around her – acrid in its thickness. 

But as soon as it had come, the rage goes. King Jon transforms back into the somber mask he had worn all week, his face smoothing into something calmer. Lyarra isn’t sure what unnerves her more: the anger, or the indifference.

“I came to give you a gift for your name day,” King Jon announces, revealing a package from his cloak. “I was hoping to speak to you alone earlier, but …” He shoves the package in her direction. “Here.”

Lyarra climbs down the tree, landing with a thud on the ground. The leather package unravels as soon as it’s in her hands. A necklace of the moon lies nestled in the leather and her chest is filled with disappointment. She would rather a sword or a horse, but how could she demand a good gift from a man she barely knew?

“Thank you, your grace,” Lyarra says awkwardly.

“My daughter Alysanne loves jewelry and she has a matching necklace.” The King watches her expression carefully. “The sun for her, the moon for you.” 

She offers another smile before he leaves the Godswood. It isn’t until that night that she stashes the necklace away, hidden beside all the other gifts given to the girl they presumed she was. 

* * *

Lyarra finds her mother weeping after the King leaves. 

The Queen sits before the weirwood at dawn, the sky bruised purple and pink as the sun peaks through the clouds.

Lyarra cannot believe her eyes when she spots her Mama sitting before the heart tree. The Queen barely ever attends the Godswood – always too busy, too distracted. Lyarra thinks something horrible must have happened beneath the weirwood leaves, otherwise her mother would never abandon such a holy place. 

Lyarra briefly considers embracing her Mama from behind, but the quiet whimpers that disturb the peace halt her feet. Her mother –  _ the Queen _ – is crying. The woman who sits upon the weirwood throne, whose arms are lined with the secrets she keeps, is weeping openly and with abandon, all the while clutching a black cloak that seems to be in tatters.

Lyarra doesn’t know how long she watches, but soon enough, she is turning on her heel – running for the keep and running from the woman who raised her.

Inside her bedchambers, with her heart thrumming and lungs aching, Lyarra thinks back to her discovery. It’s yet another mystery to be solved, and she hides it away, just as she hid the necklace.

* * *

She is nine when she asks the question again.

Her mother has just returned from Bear Island, bone-tired and weary from the journey south. She wears exhaustion like her crown and Lyarra knows –  _ or so Maester Marwin had told her –  _ that she should leave her mother alone to rest. But Lyarra has been wanting to ask the question for nigh on a moon, ever since she had heard the whispers of Princess Snow.

The question leaves her mouth, clumsy and rushed.

“Lya…” Her mother sighs, bringing her hands to her face. There is a line in her forehead, beside a scar Lya has always been curious about. “Must you hear the story again?”

“I know the story, Mama,” Lya mutters, knowing full well she can almost recite it at this point. “But I heard some boys talking…”

In an instant, her mother changes. Tired transforms to fury and nothing – not even the Gods themselves – could match her mother’s rage. “What were they saying? What did you hear?”

The assault is quick and leaves Lyarra stunned.

“Well?” Her mother questions. “Tell me, Lyarra, or I shall march down to the Maesters Tower and ask Marwin myself.”

“Maester Marwin doesn’t know,” Lyarra shoots back. “He doesn’t know  _ everything,  _ Mama.”

“They may not look it, but the walls have ears, Lyarra,” Her mother snaps. “You’d do best to remember that.”

“Walls cannot have ears,” Lyarra mutters bitterly, “and wolves cannot father children.”

Her mother recoils – shock taking place of fury for just a moment. And then the anger returns. “Tell me. Now.”

The boy's stolen words – overheard and spoken in between laughter – spill out of her in a rushed confession.

“They said I was not a real Princess because you were not married to my father.” Lyarra takes a steadying breath, calling on all the old Gods to give her any courage they could spare. “They said that I am a Snow.”

Just like that, the burden that she had carried for the last moon is gone, and in its place is her mother's rage.

“Lies,” Her mother snaps, so furious that Lyarra wants to hide. She has never seen her mother like this – not even when she climbed the Maesters tower and nearly fell. “Do you know their names?”

_ Edgar and Silas. _ __

“No, Mama,” Lyarra murmurs, the lie like lead in her mouth. “I don’t know who they are, I swear. I just wanted to know if it was true.”

Her mother shakes her head, her denials stronger than her rage, and Lyarra loses what little courage she had left. Like so many times before, her questions are abandoned – her curiosity locked away in a tiny space in her mind, to be revisited once more when she finds herself brave enough.

In the cold darkness, Lyarra knows the courage won’t return for some time.

* * *

Secrets have a habit of being found out.

Even in the North, where the light is hidden by a near-constant cover of clouds, there is little shade for information to hide. But even still, the people of Winterfell hold their secrets tightly to their chest. Lyarra collects them like coins: Miker the butcher enjoys songs, and Jeyne the kitchen maid spends her days caring for a bastard girl with her eyes. Ser Podrick enjoys the company of a wench called Milly and Ser Jaime spends his nights in the chambers of Lady Brienne of Tarth. 

Lyarra is two and ten when her truth unravels, a quiet shattering that occurs with little fanfare. Like so many other children, the lies told in her childhood are quickly usurped by the cruelty of logic and impending adulthood. 

For all the Queen had done to protect her only daughter from the past, it is for naught. In the end, it takes an overheard conversation and a hiding spot beneath her mother’s bed for the truth to be found out.

“Don’t you think she deserves to know?” Her Aunt hisses. “She’s not a girl anymore, Sansa.”

Lyarra stops breathing.

“You know she asks me, don’t you?” Arya whispers. “As does Jon. It’s all he asks of me when I see him.” 

“Jon knows the arrangement and so do you,” Her mother whispers. “Lyarra will not be defined by her parents' mistakes.” 

Arya recoils. “So that is what you think? After all this time?”

“What am I meant to think?” Her mother asks. “He is a King to a different Queen. He has a family that I did not give him. I bore a bastard and I must protect her from it – even if that means keeping my mistakes a secret.” 

“Jon would never call it a mistake.”

“Oh, you always take his side,” Her mother spits. “He will always remain a saint in your eyes. What will he have to do for you to see him as he truly is?”

“And what is he, Sansa?” Her Aunt asks. “You hate him because he is honourable to a fault and gave up his life for yours. Is that right?”

“I don’t hate him.” Lyarra hears a scuffling of chairs. “I have never hated him.” 

They eventually leave – their spat taken to the Queens solar. It gives Lyarra a chance to escape, the coldness of the truth settling into her bones and keeping her awake long into the night. She wants to scream, her fury so bright that she wonders if she should declare it from the broken tower. But in the end, no tantrums are necessary – not when the truth is so spiteful.

“You look glum today,” Ser Jaime comments, his voice carrying in the wind.

Lyarra doesn’t respond – her heels coming to dig into her horse’s side as she takes off. She doesn’t feel like talking.

Ser Jaime watches her with caution as they finish their ride, his eyes focused on the young princess as she hands her reins to the castellan.

“Are you mad?” He finally asks.

“No.”

He scoffs. “You certainly seem cross.”

Lyarra is tempted to tell the golden knight how she feels, but her emotions are not as easily explained as she would wish. 

“Ser Jaime said you were quiet today,” The Queen murmurs, the light of the candles lighting up her auburn hair. She looks like autumn when she smiles, but there is no mistaking the ice in her veins. “Is something bothering you?”

“Ser Jaime should know when to shut up,” Lyarra mutters, pushing her mutton across the plate.

“Lyarra!” The Queen scolds. “Ser Jaime is just worried.”

“He needn’t be,” Lyarra snaps. “I am well.”

“Are you?” The Queen asks – her tone frosting into the same ice that coats the wall.  _ Here I am,  _ it taunts,  _ the crown you hate.  _ “You don’t seem it.”

Lyarra is tempted to ask the Queen  **the** question again. She wants to ask about her father. She wants to ask about the King in the South. She wants to demand the truth – the same truth she heard while hidden beneath her mother’s featherbed.

But her tongue holds the weight of the world and her courage is nothing near her mothers.

“I am,” Lyarra lies, knowing it is easier to lie than tell the truth. After all, the Queen is not accustomed to honesty. __

* * *

When Lyarra flowers, her mother is nowhere to be found.

Alys – her maid – fusses over her and strips the sheets, but the Queen does not make an appearance.

“Does she not want to see me?” Lyarra asks, as she is stripped of her stained nightgown and dropped into steaming water.

“Don’t be silly,” Alys says, rolling her eyes. “She is busy, your grace.”

Lyarra sinks further into the water and further into resentment.

She dines with the Queen as usual, but this night, she is stuffed with rags, has stomach cramps and has a pouch of lavender tied to her thigh. Her mother says nothing of her new affliction until –

“This doesn’t mean you need to marry,” The Queen declares as Lyarra goes to leave. “You’re only a child and I will not have you go through the same pain I did.” 

Lyarra truly looks at the Queen then and spies the redness of her eyes and the lines that now mark her face.  _ She’s been crying.  _ Sansa Stark –  _ Sansa Lannister – Sansa Bolton – The Queen –  _ stares back unashamedly, her face hard and a storm within her gaze.

“I will always protect you, Lya,” The Queen says. “Even from marriage.”

Lyarra chews the inside of her mouth hard enough that she tastes blood. “I don’t need protecting anymore, Mother. Not even from the truth.”

It is her first act of rebellion and far from her last.

“Your mother only wishes the best for you,” they all say. Jaime, Brienne, even Ser Pod. It becomes a repetitive motto between them, but it seems none of them have answers when she asks for the truth. 

For all Maester Marwin is a bore, he is no liar.

“Your mother has not had an easy life, princess,” He says when she vents her frustrations.

“I know,” Lyarra says out of spite. “I know all about how they cut off Eddard Starks head and made her marry the imp and then shipped her to the Vale. I know all about the battle of the dead and-and I know  _ all  _ about being a  **bastard** !”

The word bursts out of her and ricochets off the walls, leaving her panting and furious. Every ounce of frustration pools out of her like blood oozing from a wound. She can see the alarm on the Maesters face and she clings to it with satisfaction.

“And don’t try to tell me I’m not!” She’s crying now; gasping, even. “Everyone knows it. Everyone knows what I am. I am a bastard **.** Mama is a  _ whore _ .”

“Princess!”

Maester Marwin is scandalised, but she doesn’t care.

“What? Are you going to tell me I’m mistaken?” Lyarra wipes the tears from her face angrily, spitting her words like venom. “I am no Princess and you are all liars.”

She flees the Maesters tower and seeks comfort with the only friend she has left: cuddling Ghost behind the glass gardens and sobbing into his fur.

“You won’t lie to me, will you?” She whispers as night falls, ignoring those who call her name from the courtyard. Red eyes stare back at her and she remembers with startling horror who Ghost once belonged to.

She carries her realisation back to her chambers, her eyes red-rimmed and her gown stained by dirt. Ser Jaime wraps her in his embrace when he spots her, whispering words of relief.

“Tell Mother I’m fine,” She mumbles, Ghost at her side. “She needn’t worry that I’ll start asking questions.”

Ser Jaime lets her go, his green eyes holding a world of secrets. “One day, you’ll know why your mother is the way she is.”

“But not today?” She asks.

He shakes his head. “Not today.”

* * *

Lyarra gets drunk for the first time two weeks later.

It seems the whole of the North has come to Winterfell for her name day. The castle is filled with people, from Karstark to Manderly to Mormont. Every Lord and Lady with a shred of importance stands in the great hall and as they dine, the Queen has one command: “behave.”

Lyarra doesn’t know why she needs the reminder. She isn’t Aunt Arya. She drinks the mulled wine offered, she dances with all the men who ask and she makes sure to smile as widely as she can.

But it’s not until an array of gifts are presented that she realises why the Queen felt the need to remind her.

A parcel from the South – wrapped in black and red cloth – has her head spinning.

“A gift from the King,” The Queen explains, her expression wary; as if she’s worried Lyarra may implode.

Lyarra doesn’t bother looking at it – instead, raising the wine to her lips and swallowing as much as she can.

She doesn’t realise how light-hearted she is until she is dancing. As she twirls, her skirts of blue unravel as if she is flying through a summer sky and the crown of winter roses that has been sewn into her hair feels like it will come loose at any moment.

She doesn’t notice that she is laughing  _ too  _ loudly, or that she is stumbling during the dance. She doesn’t notice that the Queen’s lips are pinched tightly together, or that her council have begun to look on in judgment.

Lyarra doesn’t notice anything until she feels Ser Jaime at her side, whispering in her ear. “Time for a break, Princess.”

“I’m fine,” Lyarra says, taking another long sip of her wine. It goes down easily, soothing everything she still feels. It may have only been two weeks since she flowered, but she is yet to reconcile with her mother – who is happy to act as if  _ nothing  _ is wrong.

_ Everything is wrong,  _ she wants to cry, thinking of gifts from a Southron King and Ghost. Instead, she takes another sip of her wine. 

“Come,” Ser Jaime says, tugging her hand.

“No,” Lyarra snaps back, shrugging him off.  _ Let them see,  _ she thinks,  _ let them all see. _

The golden knight pulls her away without waiting for further arguments, dragging her by the hand. 

“Let me go,” Lyarra sneers as she is pulled from the hall, feeling her cheeks flush. “This is madness.”

The cold air hits her like the steel of a sword. Ser Jaime lets go of her hand and she stumbles into the snow, the wet seeping through her skirts.

She is still panting through her anger when he speaks.

“You know better than to act like that.”

“Act like what?”

His eyes are blazing. “Must I say it?”

“Don’t be a coward, Jaime,” Lyarra spat. “Or should I call you Kingslayer?”

Ser Jaime snorted, leaning against a stone pillar. “Should I congratulate you for learning your history?”

“If you wish,” Lyarra snipes. “I’m not one to reject praise.”

Ser Jaime chuckles, crossing his arms. His gaze becomes reflective, jade eyes following her as she itches at her corset

“You’re drunk,” He observes, although he says it as if he is the adult and she the child; a lecturing tone to his voice. Lyarra  _ hates  _ it. “And I have seen ladies maids act with more discretion.” 

Lyarra bites into her lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. She is not so upset she wants to weep, but her frustration – her fury – is so overpowering that her emotions are trying to break free in whatever way they possibly can. But Lyarra refuses to cry. She refuses to break.

Instead, she wraps her arms around herself and says, “I’m only acting as I am, Ser Jaime. If my mother wanted a Princess, mayhaps she should have wed my father before laying with him.”

Ser Jaime doesn’t flinch at the accusation. “Is that why you’re mad?”

“She gave me his gift at the feast,” Lyarra snaps, watching her breath pool out in clouds before her. “She acts as if I don’t know.”

“Mayhaps she thinks you don’t.”

Lyarra glances over at him. “And do you?”

Ser Jaime offers her a sad smile. “You’ve always been too observant, Princess.”

When she arrives back in her chambers, Lyarra finds the gift from the dragon King. A beautifully carved bow and arrow meet her eyes, before she finds the note.

_ A Stark should always be protected. _

* * *

Lyarra is six and ten when she realises what will give her freedom. 

“You want to marry?” Alys asks, as she brushes out Lyarra’s curls. 

She nods, twisting a necklace back and forth in her palm. “It’s a perfect age, Alys. I can marry and then travel and see the world. I can visit my Aunt Arya – my cousins in the capital as well.”

_ And leave Winterfell. _

“The Queen doesn’t seem in a rush to secure a betrothal,” Alys murmurs. “Unless you have some news?”

Lyarra thinks to the letters gathering dust in her mother’s solar – notes she had stumbled upon when fetching scarfs. Every major house expressing interest and none to receive a reply.

“You’ll be the first one to know when I’m sold off, Alys.” Lyarra promises, looking up at her maid with a smile.

Alys returns her grin. “You are a prize, Princess. Not a possession.”

Thoughts of a betrothal don’t rise again until Ned Karstark visits from Karhold.

He’s grown over the past year. Lanky limbs replaced by broad shoulders and a shadow of a beard. His eyes still watch her with the same besotted excitement they have always held, but now, Lyarra finds herself drawn to it – her cheeks flushing at his gaze and her mind filling with thoughts of freedom.

“You’ve grown, Ned,” Lyarra says when they dance.

He grins. “I’ve been waiting for you to notice.”

They write for two moons before Lyarra makes up her mind.

“I’m going to wed,” She confides in Alys.

Her maid turns around in shock. “What?  _ Who _ !?!”

“Ned Karstark.” Lyarra laughs. “I used to call him Ser Cabbage.”

“You hate him!”

“I once did,” Lyarra admits. “But he’s grown on me.”

“And when did he ask for your hand?”

Lyarra grins. “I’m not one to wait for a man to make up his mind, Alys.”

When Ned visits again, she doesn’t have to convince him – or say anything really – before he pulls her into a kiss. His fingers bruise her back and his breath is hot against hers. She’s not in love, but Lyarra can imagine a life with these kisses and with this man. A life away from Winterfell and away from the Queen.

“Kissing a Princess without asking first is dangerous, Ned,” She whispers against his lips.

She finds herself being pushed up against the weirwood, his fingers digging into her waist. “I know.”

Lyarra takes a deep breath before whispering, “Kissing a bastard is even more dangerous.”

Ned pulls back, his brown eyes blazing.

“You know the rumours?” Lyarra asks. “I want you to know the truth before you ask for anything more than a kiss.”

Ned is quiet for a moment – seemingly stunned – before he traces her cheekbone. “I don’t care for rumours, Lya. Only the truth.”

Lya knows then that she has made the right choice.

* * *

“You can’t be serious, Lyarra.”

The Queen is furious.

“Accepting a betrothal without even consulting me?” The Queen asks. “And with Eddard Karstark, of all boys? You  _ hate  _ him.”

“No I don’t,” Lyarra shoots back. She feels nervous as she sits before the Queen – feeling all of a sudden years younger and as if she is being scolded for merely existing. “I haven’t for years.”

“But you do not love him,” The older woman alleges, her fury so bright it burns more than any blaze. “I can tell.”

“How would you know?” Lya snaps. “You’ve never been in love.”

The Queen stumbles slightly, her eyebrows knitting together. “That’s not true.”

“Well, you didn’t love the imp, and you certainly didn’t love the Bolton bastard,” Lyarra watches her as the Queen flinches. “Or mayhaps you loved that wolf that dropped me at your keep door.”

Her mother pinches her nose. “Is that what this is about? Your father?”

“No.” Lyarra shakes her head. “I know about my father.”

The Queen’s icy gaze narrows. “Oh?”

For all that Lyarra has felt lost, she has never questioned her courage. And as her mother stands over her, pushing a subject they had danced around since her birth, Lyarra finds her bravery in a name.

“Jon Snow.” The words taste bitter in her mouth and receive no reaction. Her mother doesn’t stumble or flinch, but Lyarra hadn’t expected her to. She is an ice Queen, after all. “He sends me a gift every name day. And he has my eyes.”

“Arya has your eyes.”

“So you deny it?” Lyarra asks. “You deny he is my father?”

The Queen’s hands clench at her skirts, her face losing its colour. “I don’t think you’ll believe any denial of mine.”

“You’re right,” Lya says. “I wouldn’t.”

Lyarra turns to leave, only to have her mother grab her wrist. For a moment, just a moment, she is  _ her  _ Mama – her despair palpable and the coldness dripping from her as if she is ice to a flame. “If you are marrying to spite me, please, Lya, know I only kept things from you to protect you.”

Her mother is desperate now – more desperate than Lyarra has ever seen her. Lyarra hasn’t seen this side of her mother in years, not since the King in the South had visited for her eighth name day.

“Lying is not protection.” Lyarra shrugs her mother off. “I thought you would know that, considering how much trouble it brought your father.”

The Queen lets go of her daughters wrist and only allows her face to crumble when the door slams shut.

* * *

Lyarra dons a new cloak on her seventeenth name day.

She is still a Stark; her mother makes sure of that.

But when she goes to bed that night, it is beside a bare-chested husband who delights in making her his.

* * *

“You’re leaving?”

Her mother stands in her doorway, watching as Lyarra packs her final trunk.

“Of course,” Lyarra says, turning to stare at the Queen. She is wearing a simple woollen gown today and seems far from the monarch she is. “Ned wants to go south. We’ll visit Arya and some of his father’s kin.”

The Queen swallows deeply. “I don’t want you to go.”

Lyarra looks down at the necklace in her hand, the silence weighing heavily between them. “It’s not forever, Mother.”

“It could be.” The Queen moves closer. “So many of my family who went south never returned, Lya.”

Lyarra moves to stand beside her mother, pressing the moon necklace into her palm. “I’ll come back, Mother. Don’t worry.”

The Queen is left standing in her daughter's chambers, holding a necklace gifted by a southron King.

* * *

“I wish I could come with you.”

Ser Jaime doesn’t want her to go, but she didn’t expect this.

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear the day that Ser Jaime Lannister would wish to go South,” Lyarra says, standing before the golden knight. “You’re going soft in your old age.”

“Mayhaps,” He says, “or I just want to keep you safe.”

“Don’t fret, Jaime,” Lyarra says, glancing over her shoulder at her new husband. “I have a husband for that now.”

“I know,” He murmurs, before kissing her hand. “Just don’t forget who you are, Princess.”

“Never.”

* * *

“We don’t have to go.”

The words are whispered in the dead of night, at some inn close to Kings Landing. They have barely slept – too caught up in learning each square inch of the others body.

“We’re nearly there, though,” Lyarra murmurs, looking into his brown gaze. It reminds her of mead and autumn. “And I want to see dragons.”

Ned smiles, tightening his hold around her. “Sometimes I think you only married me to see them.”

Lyarra is many things; but she will never be a liar. 

“I did,” Lya says, “but you turned out to be a good choice.”

She doesn’t know if he thinks she’s jesting, or whether he knows she’s telling the truth. Either way, he stares at her for far too long before he smiles that  _ beautiful  _ smile she’s grown fond of.

“I want to always be a good choice for you, Lya.”

Lyarra grins and knows they won’t sleep much tonight.

* * *

Kings Landing is a vipers nest, or so she had read.

For all her years listening to Maester Marwin and his lectures on the tragedies that had occurred within the walls of this city, Lyarra can’t help but be enthralled by it. She loves the bustle of the city and the smell of the salt from the ocean. She loves the sight of the red spider – and can’t help but smile at the sound of dragons.

Mayhaps it is her final rebellion that brings her to the gates of her father's keep, or mayhaps it is her courage.

Ned stands by her side when they’re welcomed into the throne room. Lyarra stares incredulously at the woman on the Iron Throne; white-haired, violet eyes and wearing a smile that seems unnatural.

Her father stands beside the Queen, their daughter on his other side. Alysanne is her mother reincarnated, but she has her father’s lips and a Stark coldness. Lyarra wonders what it must feel like, to see a girl who is the mirror image of her father and yet not know she’s kin.  _ Or maybe she does know.  _

“Princess Lyarra,” The Queen of the South says. “It is a joy to have you here.”

Lyarra knows a lie when she hears one.

“The King and I congratulate you on your recent marriage,” The Queen says. “We heard it was a beautiful affair.”

“We thought so, your grace,” Ned says from beside her, his fingers bumping against hers.  _ I’m here,  _ they say,  _ you’re not alone. _

Daenerys Targaryen smiles, before glancing at her husband. “Will you be in the capital long?”

“No, your grace,” Lyarra says, meeting the eyes of her father. “It will be a short visit.”

* * *

It takes a day to get the King by himself.

The silence stretches between them painfully. Lyarra hasn’t seen the King since she was a girl of eight and he was handing her a necklace before the weirwood. Now, she is a woman grown – married to a Lord and aware of all the lies they had once fed her.

“Your mother wrote to say you would be coming,” He finally says, breaking the quiet.

Lyarra shouldn’t be surprised, but the knowledge that her mother still writes the King is shocking. She had been happy to accept that her conception was a moment of madness but mayhaps there had been something more.

“Oh?”

The King swallows deeply. “She says you know the truth.”

Lyarra meets his grey eyes;  _ my eyes. _

“She didn’t tell me,” Lyarra says lamely. “Secrets have a habit of being found out in the North.” __

The dragon before her looks agonized. The man that was once Jon Snow seems weathered by more than just age. His eyes hold a torment that Lyarra has seen in her own mothers gaze and it haunts her to think her parents are alike. Her father – the wolf who always seemed so distant – shares her mother’s coldness, if that is what it is. Mayhaps it is just pain.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” He admits. “I wanted to be your father.”

Her heart thunders against her chest. “So why weren’t you?”

The King pushes a hand through his greying hair. A nervous habit, Lyarra suspects. “It was decided that it would be better – safer – if I was not your father.”

Lyarra takes the truth with a stoicism. “Did my mother command it?”

“Yes,” He says, before rushing to explain when her face folds in fury. “Although it was a decision we agreed upon. Your mother knows, better than most, how dangerous it would have been for me to declare that you were mine.”

“That I’m a bastard, you mean?” Lyarra sneers. “It would have put the crown at risk.”

Jon smiles bitterly. “Your mother didn’t care about that.”

“I think she does.”

“If she cared, you wouldn’t be here,” Jon says. “I was a bastard and your mother loved me anyway.”

“You were a Targaryen. You were King in the North,” Lyarra insists, her mind swimming with his titles before Daenerys Targaryen landed on Westeros.

“Aye, those too,” Jon agrees, “but I was still a bastard in the eyes of the Old Gods and the New. I was still the same bastard her mother had sneered at.”

Lyarra feels flush with rage, but Jon continues. “You must understand, Lyarra, that the world was not how it is now. When you were born, the Long Night had only just ended—”

“—and you married Daenerys Targaryen and gave my mother the crown,” Lyarra sneers. “I know my history.”

The King looks frustrated. “Then you must know that the Queen was threatening to abolish the Northern crown and all that your mother and I had fought for. Every victory we had won – every inch of the North we had battled to keep – would have been scorched if I had not agreed to marry my Aunt.”

“You wed a woman who threatened to burn the North?” Lyarra can’t hide her shock.

“Power is an ugly thing,” The King says. “Your mother knows that, as does my wife.”

Lyarra turns, going to stand by the window. The ocean crashes angrily outside the keep and Lyarra wants nothing more than to disappear within the waves, floating away to a new life and a new name.

“Did you love her?” She asks, glancing over to him.

Jon seems bowled over the blunt question, but eventually chokes out, “I still do.”

Lyarra weeps to her husband that night – her tears soaking through his tunic as she bites out, “I don’t understand. Nothing about this makes sense.”

Ned wraps her tightly in his arms and whispers that the world is full of broken people.

“He loved her,” She sobs, “and he left her.”

* * *

The day before they leave Kings Landing, Alysanne Targaryen corners her in the Godswood.

“Hello,” She greets, shuffling from foot to foot.

Lyarra stares at the Princess –  _ girl  _ – before her. She wears her silver hair in a braided crown, her violet eyes large and uncertain. Lyarra finds herself calculating just how much they share – their nose, their neck, their cheekbones.  _ Sister _ , a voice whispers. Lyarra wants to set the word on fire.

“Hello,” Lyarra returns, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders and desperately wishing Ned was at her side.  _ Ned would know what to say,  _ she thinks.  _ He always knows what to say. _

“I’ve been trying to get you alone,” Alysanne admits. “But Mother has been keeping me away.” Alysanne bites her lip, as if she’s let loose a big secret. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Why would she keep you away?” Lyarra asks.

Alysanne shrugs. “I suppose she thought she was protecting me.”

A startled laugh escapes Lyarra. “Mothers tend to do that, don’t they?”

“Mine is so strict,” Alysanne says. “She always has been. Papa says she nearly lost me when I was a babe, but I think she would have always been this way – even if I had been perfectly healthy.” She takes a breath. “Her first babe died, you see, while she was still Khaleesi.”

A silence stretches between them before Alysanne continues, “I actually hoped to go North for my name day, but Mother said I… I wouldn’t be welcomed there. I don’t know if that’s true, or if she just doesn’t want me to travel.”

Lyarra imagines Alysanne traveling North – this girl with silver hair and violet eyes and the face of her mother – and knows the gates of Winterfell would remain closed. Her mother would mayhaps welcome her, but Lyarra would not. She couldn’t bear the sight of her mother’s face crumbling in that way it rarely does; couldn’t bear the sound of her weeping just as she did that day in the Godswood so many years ago.

Alysanne bites her lip, wringing her hands at Lyarra’s silence. “Don’t worry, though, I have no plans on going anymore. Papa said it wouldn’t be fair to the Queen.”

“Oh?”

Alysanne explains, “To see me. Papa says I look just like my mother and that it would be cruel to be presented to the Queen in the North.”

Lyarra’s mouth runs dry. “And why is that?”

“Well…” Alysanne fumbles. “They love each other, don’t they?”

The admission – coming from the mouth of a Targaryen princess – makes Lyarra’s stomach roll.

“You seem to know more than I do,” Lyarra hisses out, her gown all too tight.

Alysanne flushes. “Papa has always told me the truth.”

“Always?” Lyarra swallows deeply, feeling envy light her insides on fire. “He’s told you everything? He’s told you who I am?”

“Of course,” Alysanne says, her cheeks bright red. “I’ve always known I had a sister, Lyarra. Papa has spoken about you my entire life. ‘His wolf’, he calls you. And for each name day, Papa and I would choose your gift.”

Lyarra feels bile racing up her throat.

“He loves you and your mother,” Alysanne insists. “I suppose that’s why things are the way they are: why I am here and you are there and mother is the way she is.”

Lyarra shakes her head. “If he loved her as he says he does, he wouldn’t have left her.”

Alysanne smiles sadly. “Mayhaps that’s why he did it.”

* * *

Alysanne shows her the dragons before Lyarra leaves.

“Wonderful, aren’t they?” Alysanne asks as they peer down into the pit.

Lyarra can only see the chains around their neck.

“You know, if you wish, you can call me Annie,” Alysanne says as they leave the pits. “And we can write.”

Lyarra stares at the hope within violet eyes and hears herself saying yes.

* * *

When they leave Kings Landing, Lyarra finds the King standing before her.

“Say hello to Arya for me,” He offers, his grey eyes watching her with wistfulness, “and your mother, as well.”

Lyarra finds the truth tastes bitter and is just as confusing as the lies.

“Do you regret it?” Lyarra asks, as she stares at her father – this faceless man of her dreams who seems to disappoint each and every one of her fantasies.

Grey eyes stare back, holding an ocean of remorse. “Of course I do.”

As Kings Landing becomes a speck on the horizon, Lyarra vows never to return.

* * *

Her Aunt is six moons pregnant and grumpier than normal.

“You are a sennight late,” Arya scolds. “Four ravens I’ve had from your mother –  **four** ! You know what she’s like, Lyarra, and yet you let me deal with her because you’re too lazy to write!”

“I’m not lazy,” Lyarra shoots back, watching her Uncle and her husband stuff mutton into their mouths – careful not to get in the middle of a Stark battle. “I just… didn’t have anything to say to her.”

“If you are in a quarrel, fine,” Ayra says, “but don’t leave her worries for me to deal with. I already have heartburn and a babe that won’t stop moving. I don’t need to be dealing with an enraged Queen too.”

“You have fought bigger battles than heartburn, Aunt Ayra,” Lyarra says. “And Mama knew where I was.”

“And you think that did anything to quell her concerns?” Arya snaps. “You are a fool if you think your mother has any ease over you being in King's Landing.”

“Why?” Lyarra asks. “It’s changed since she was a girl.”

Arya snorts. “Changed? It is just as dangerous as it was when my father’s head was cut off – only now, there are dragons.” 

“Ayra,” Gendry warns.

Arya waves her husband’s concerns away, glaring at her niece. “You are naïve if you think the peace we have now is assured. The only reason Westeros has not gone up in flames is because of Jon and we have only him to thank for that.”

Lyarra meets her Aunt's eyes. “And what price did he pay for peace?”

“A price big enough to keep you alive.” 

Lyarra rages once she’s alone with Ned – her fury so bright it ought to have been a comet in the night sky.

“They treat me like I’m a child,” Lyarra sneers. “All my life, they have hidden things from me and when I finally get the truth, they act as if I should be thankful they lied. It’s infuriating.”

Ned sits on their bed, watching her pace back and forth. He discarded his tunic hours ago – and while she wants nothing more than to lay on his muscled chest and forget everything else, Lyarra cannot quell the anger that courses through her veins.

“They act as if my life was a bargaining chip for peace and it’s not!” Lyarra rages. “I am not a pawn to be traded. I am not- I am not simply a consequence of their misjudgements!”

“Lya…” Ned beckons her over, opening his arms. “Come here.”

Her husband centres her as only he can, his strong arms wrapping around her waist, and the smell of pine tickles her nostrils.

“You are not a bargaining chip, or a pawn,” Ned murmurs, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her neck. “You are not a simple consequence.” He kisses her chest. “You are not the lies your mother told,” a kiss to her breast, “or the silence of your father.” He looks up at her through dark lashes. “You never have been.”

She traces his beard. “I don’t want to be like them, Ned. Promise me we won’t be like them. Promise me, Ned.”

“I promise.”

* * *

Arya finds her in the Godswood.

“You look like your mother when you pray.” Lyarra looks up from where she kneels, finding her Aunt's reproachful face. “And you look like your father when you’re angry.”

Lyarra leans back. “Is this an apology?”

“No,” Arya says, “I’m far too old to be apologising for telling the truth.”

Lyarra stares at her Aunt, the old resentment rearing its ugly head. The anger is dampened this morning, replaced by a more desperate need to escape Storms End and Westeros itself. Lyarra would love nothing more than to board one of the ships with Ned and escape to a land where no one could whisper the word ‘bastard’.

“Gendry said I may have been a bit prickly last night,” Arya says, sitting down on a nearby bench. “I blame it on the whelp inside me, but Gendry says my age is sharpening my tongue.”

Lyarra narrows her eyes, before standing up and dusting off her skirts. “Are you nervous that you’ve upset me?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?” Lyarra asks.

“It’s easy to be angry about decisions that weren’t yours to make, Lyarra,” Arya says. “It’s easy to resent your mother for lying to you; to resent me for going along with it and your father for never saying anything.” Arya pauses. “I would be angry too. I know Jon was.”

“Then why did he go along with it?”

Arya snorts. “Because he would never go against your mother – not after he turned his back on her.”

“Mayhaps he should have.”

“Mayhaps,” Arya concedes, “but what good would that have done?”

“I would have known the truth—”

“—you would have known that your father bartered his own freedom for your life,” Arya says. “For Northern freedom; for your mother's crown. That’s why he went South.”

Lyarra narrows her eyes. “He didn’t know about me before he decided to go South.”

“Aye, he didn’t.” Ayra nods. “But he stayed away, didn’t he?”

Her Aunt lets out a long sigh – her exasperation on clear display. Arya is usually a storm inside a woman’s body, better fitted for unruly oceans and gruesome battlefields than the life of a wife. But as she strokes her swollen belly, her Aunt seems smaller than she has before – not the battle-weary soldier of her past, but an exhausted woman with a babe on the way.

“When I was a girl,” Arya begins, “we were told stories of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Back then, the tale was that Rhaegar stole Lyanna, took her to a tower in Dorne and raped her.” Arya swallows deeply. “Father would not talk of it, but why would he? His sister had been taken by a Prince and ended up dead.”

Arya smiles bitterly. “But of course, that wasn’t the truth. No one knew until Howland Reed came to Winterfell with a story of a northern girl running away with a southron prince. The lie that we had all been told – that Jon was our bastard brother – fell apart.”

“You weren’t there when that happened.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Arya says. “Jon told me later, after the dead were gone and we were headed south. I couldn’t quite believe it.”

“You still don’t,” Lyarra says. “You call him your brother.”

“He is my brother,” Arya insists. “The only one I have left.”

Lyarra looks down at her dirty skirts and asks, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“You asked last night what price your father paid for peace?” Arya asks. “He paid  _ everything _ . So did your mother. So did my father. Eddard Stark brought home a child from Dorne and lied for fourteen years. He lied to my mother, to the King, to us. He lied not to protect his sister, or to make sure Robert Baratheon sat comfortably on his throne, but to protect Jon. To keep him safe.”

Arya shakes her head, a look of familiar resentment taking over her features. “Westeros had already been torn apart because two people were selfish enough to fall in love. Do you think your mother and father could bear to watch it happen again?”

Her Aunt leaves her in the Godswood, haunted by the ghost of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.

* * *

They travel.

They swim in the Dornish sea and race on the back of sand steeds. They explore the Reach and float down Tully rivers. It’s not until they’re in the Vale that Lyarra stops bleeding. 

Ned twirls her around when she whispers the news in his ear, his brown eyes alight with joy and his beard scratches her cheek as he lays kisses over her face. A babe, he whispers, over and over and over again until even  _ she  _ can’t quite believe it. 

“We should go home,” She decides that night, as they lay bare beneath furs and wrapped in each other’s arms.

Ned cocks a brow, having followed her from Winterfell to Dorne. “Are you sure?”

“It’s time,” Lyarra whispers. “I want to see her.”

* * *

By the time they return to Winterfell, she is six moons gone and her mother fusses over her like never before.

“You look happy,” Her mother observes one night, when Lyarra is propped up against a dozen cushions and trying to calm the babe within her belly.

Lyarra finds herself smiling. “I am.”

Her mother returns her grin, before it dampens. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

Lyarra stills her hand on her belly, meeting her mother’s gaze. A sea of unspoken words hover between them – years of avoidance filling the room with a familiar tension. Lyarra wonders if her mother has always seemed so hesitant, or if years of division has eroded away their comfort with each other.

_ She looks like the King,  _ a voice whispers, remembering the tortured look worn by the King in the South. And then Lyarra is thinking back on all the years gone by, wondering if perceived coldness was instead caution and distance was instead desperation.

“I think so,” Lyarra says, feeling her babe kick deep within her belly and sharing a smile with the woman who had once seemed so remote.

* * *

The babe comes in the night.

The pain is unbearable and Lyarra doesn’t care if her screams wake up the entire keep. She may be nine and ten, but this babe is threatening to tear her limb from limb and she will scream if it is the last thing she does.

Her mother sits by her side, her hand in hers and her lips by her ear.

“It’s okay, my love,” Her mother whispers, “you’re doing beautifully.”

Lyarra thinks only her mother would use the word ‘beautiful’ in the birthing chamber, but she is in too much pain to mock her as she would otherwise.

Instead, she screams and screams and screams until—

“A healthy daughter, your grace!” The midwife says, a squalling babe in her arms.

Red faced and tiny, the bundle is passed to Lyarra and she feels her world centre on the babe within the blankets. The pain is gone and in its place is a wonder that Lyarra has never felt before. Her chest fills with a joy that seems weightless; a joy that tells her everything she has always been so desperate to realise. 

“Well done,” Her mother whispers. “She is beautiful, Lya.”

Lyarra looks to her babe and knows she will do anything –  _ everything  _ – to keep her safe.

And after nineteen years, Lyarra finally finds understanding with the woman who sits beside her

“She looks like you, Mama,” Lya says, breathless. She runs her fingers through curls of red, before counting her fingers. Slowly, her babe opens her eyes – revealing a Tully blue gaze.

“She’s a fish,” Her mother says, her voice choked and her eyes swimming with tears. “She looks just like all the others.” Her mother presses a kiss to her daughter's temple, her hand cupping her cheek. “I’ll go get Ned.” 

Lyarra stares down at her girl and whispers, “Hello, darling. I am your Mama.”

Ned bursts through the door, wearing a smile so wide Lyarra thinks it may fall off his face and delivering a kiss so searing her cheeks flush bright red.

“I love you,” Ned says, before pressing a kiss to the crown of their daughters head. “And I love her.”

They wait until things have settled to agree on a name – the decision made in the early hours as their babe feeds against her mother’s chest. It is Lyarra’s suggestion, but Ned agrees easily – repeating the name over and over and over again as if to make it real.

“So?” Her mother asks later that day, after Lyarra has finally had some sleep. “Did you decide?”

Lyarra nods, glancing at the bundle of blankets that lay by her side. “We’re going to call her Sansa.”

Her mother inhales sharply, her Tully eyes swimming with the ghosts she tries so often to hide. “Really?”

“Really.” Lya smiles weakly. “I want her to be just as strong as her grandmother.”

Her mother embraces her tightly, her hands coming to grip her daughters raven hair. A sob breaks free from her mouth, reminding Lya so horribly of the day in the Godswood. “I thought you hated me."

Lya meets her mother’s gaze. “I just didn’t understand you, Mama.”

“And do you now?” Her mother asks, tears streaming down her face.

Lya looks down at her babe, unaware of the world and it’s cruelties and vows to do everything to keep her safe.

“Yes,” She says, “I do.”

* * *

Sansa giggles as her mother chases her through the Godswood, her red hair trailing behind her like a ribbon of flames.

“Gotcha, Sanny!” Lyarra says, wrapping her arms around her daughters waist and pressing a hundred little kisses to her face.

“No, no!” The little Princess cries, squirming out of her Mama’s arms.

Lyarra grins widely, slumping down at the base of the weirwood as she watches her daughter run free again.

“Aren’t you going to chase me?” Sanny teases, eyes bright and out of breath.

Lyarra shakes her head. “I’m too tired,” She says, pointing to her swollen belly. “I fear the baby is making me slow.”

Sanny narrows her eyes at her mother’s gut, stomping over to admonish her sibling. “Stop it! Stop making Mama tired.”

Lyarra giggles, pulling her daughter to her lap. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s not very nice to make you tired,” Sanny says, snuggling into her mother’s chest. “When will the baby arrive, Mama?”

“A few more moons, darling,” Lyarra says, running her hands over her daughter's braid. “And then you’ll have a new brother, or sister.”

“I don’t want a brother or sister.” Sanny pouts. “You don’t have any.”

_ Alysanne,  _ a voice whispers. But Sansa is too small, too young to know that name. “But I wish I did.”

“Do you?”

Lyarra nods. “I always wanted a little brother or sister to chase around. I only ever had Ser Jaime and he wasn’t any fun.”

Sanny nods in understanding, before her brow furrows. “Why didn’t you have any brothers or sisters?”

Lyarra looks down at her girl – meeting the bright blue of her daughter's Tully eyes. In them, she finds the world untainted and kind, so far from the reality that Lyarra has grown used to. And despite her vow all those years ago, Lyarra finds herself reciting an old tale.

“Well,” Lyarra begins, “I was born of a wolf…”

**Author's Note:**

> A quarantine surprise for all the people who liked the Red Queen. Four years on, it's still my favourite thing I've written. Sorry for the delay in other stories. New job. New house. Boyfriend now an ex. A lot has happened. But I'm trying to get back into writing. Hope you enjoy x


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